Roses Wilt, Bites Scar [boyxboy]

Chapter VII

~Tuesday 10th March 2011~

Arlo groaned as he rolled over in bed, feeling awfully sorry for himself. His head was throbbing, and his back still aching from the abuse Emeri had bestowed on him the previous day. Really, he didn't think of it as abuse, despite the use of the word, he simply couldn't think of another term. He should have thought worse, he should have called it torture, or agony, or torment. And, yet, he didn't. How could he call something he got off on torture?

That was the problem with the situation, Arlo couldn't manage to fear Emeri enough because he found a connection with the man. Like Emeri had mentioned, they were counterparts, opposites. In theory, they were perfect for one another but, with the context, Arlo couldn't think that way. He couldn't settle, he shouldn't have, he should be making plans to escape.

He knew that was futile, hence why he had yet to bother. Emeri would overpower him easily, and Arlo would probably receive some sort of punishment should he try. It wasn't worth it. He told himself he was biding his time, however, even Arlo himself knew that wasn't true. He was content where he was, having been bought by the devil. He was quite happy being his toy. He had no intention of leaving.

An awful, unrealistic notion to those of normality, somehow so simple to Arlo. The boy had been in worse situations, believe it or not, living under Satan's roof wasn't the darkest hole he had fallen into. Emeri fed him, clothed him, sheltered him, and all he asked for in return was an outlet for his anger. It almost seemed like a suitable trade. Why should Arlo give that up?

There was his sister, and he didn't want to dwell on the thought of her. Viola made him ache, he longed to be with her, to hug her, to just tell her not to worry about him. She was the last piece of family he had, and he was the same to her. She was alone now, they both were. Arlo could only pray that she didn't end up dead in a ditch somewhere, that Ezekiel would step up and take care of her. She was fifteen, she didn't deserve all the shit that life had thrown her way.

Viola was the only connection Arlo had to the world he had left behind, he couldn't seem to find another string to grasp. What else would he really be returning to? Poverty, loneliness, depression. What else? Why give up warmth and some strange shade of light and... and a feeling of belonging, all for the darkness of his past?

Arlo stared up at the ceiling of the room he was confined to, his own little prison. Once again, he didn't think of it as that. It was a quaint room, one that didn't bother him as much as it should have. He had never been plagued with claustrophobia, therefore the walls of the room didn't feel as though they were closing in on him. He didn't feel as though he was suffocating, in fact, the room was probably bigger than his own one back at his shared apartment.

"Are you awake, Arlo?" The boy craned his neck to look up at Inya, the only other person he had met in the castle, lingering in the doorway seeming like she was juggling multiple things in her arms.

"Yeah, yeah, let me help you," Arlo threw back the covers he had cocooned himself in, rising from the bed far too quickly. Immediately, his knees buckled, sending him to the floor as his head spun, his vision swaying and blurred.

"Oh my gosh, Arlo!" The boy wasn't sure how, but he found himself back on his bed when everything set back into place. He was perched on the edge of the mattress, with Inya sat next to him, dabbing a damp, cold cloth on his cheeks and forehead.

"What happened?" Arlo's speech was slow and slurred, his head feeling awfully heavy on his shoulders and the task of keeping his eyes open seeming very laborious in the moment.

"You collapsed, Arlo," Inya looked concerned, her hands trembling as she held the cloth to Arlo's forehead, "you're pale, and I think you might have a fever. Why didn't you inform anyone earlier than there is something wrong with you?"